Side By Side
by Pegship
Summary: Before there was ever Castle and Beckett or Gina or Alexis or Meredith or even Kyra, there was Richard and Martha.
1. Chapter 1

"What country, friends, is this?"

Two figures stand on the stage in the empty theatre, one in the spotlight, one on the fringe of it.

Richard shouts, "One more for the cheap seats!"

Mama flings her arms up and her line comes forth in all its blazing glory. "What country, friends, is this?"

She reaches for his hand, but before they can take their traditional bow a man says from the wings, "This is Illyria, lady."

Will steps out onstage, sauntering and grinning and not the least bit in character. Richard frowns at the interruption, then turns back to face front and joins his mother in a sweeping bow. Mama hugs him, swings him around in her arms.

"Oof. You're getting big, kiddo."

"Going off to school soon?" says the man. Richard can tell he's trying to make a point, one that he doesn't like. He keeps hold of his mother's hand as she turns to talk to Will.

"Oh, I don't know," she replies airily. "Once this show's done...I don't have anything else lined up. Don't know where we'll be."

"Still, he's getting kinda old for kindergarten. Gonna have to go sooner or later."

"We'll cross that bridge when we come to it." Richard speaks up clearly. He hopes Will won't be on the other side of that bridge, and he knows for sure that Mama feels the same way. She can't say anything to Will - Will knows people, and she might get kicked out of the play, and the play is what pays the bills, kiddo.

Will looks Richard in the eye and opens his mouth to speak. Mama gets in first.

"Thank you so much for thinking of us," she says. "We thespians gotta stick together, right?"

She winks at Will, who grins back. He must still think Mama likes him, even after that time she came home wobbly and giggly and she and Will wrestled on the couch and Mama almost lost. Richard was hiding behind a door, listening, and he heard Mama yell, "I said - !" and a couple of slaps and Will yelling, "owwww!" Then the front door slammed and he heard Mama shoot the bolt.

When he peeked around the door he saw her slumped on the couch, looking rumpled and tired and just staring off into space. Once her eyes closed and he knew she was asleep, Richard went on tiptoes to drag the afghan off the armchair and drape it over her. Then he switched off the light and turned to go back to bed.

But he couldn't just leave her there. She'd wake up and it'd be dark and not her bed and Richard hated when that happened to him. He pattered back over to the couch and crawled under the afghan, snuggled against her side.

This and other things made him very, very sure that Will was, as Mama said, Out Of The Running.

"Sure," says Will. "Speaking of sticking together, you wanna go for a drink? After we drop off Junior here, that is."

Junior? the boy thinks. You have to have a dad to be a Junior, and he doesn't. He's about to ask what Will means when his mother squeezes his hand and says in a less friendly voice, "Oh, no, thanks, Will. We have a prior engagement. Some other time, perhaps."

Will glances his way and Richard gives him his best blank poker face, even though he has no idea what engagement Mama is talking about. He may be only six years old, but he knows a cue when he hears one.

She gives a brisk nod and exits, stage left, her faithful sidekick hand in hand.


	2. Come on, baby

_**A/N:**_ _In "Dead From New York", we discover Martha's opening-night ritual consists of saying nothing but her first line for forty-eight hours prior. Castle's comment: "Most awkward parent-teacher conference_ ever _."_

* * *

"Come on, baby. I'll make it worth your while."

Mrs. Reed, the immovable Mrs. Reed, queen of the second grade, stares across her desk, across the room, at the woman who has just entered her nearly-deserted classroom. Richard breathes deeply and sits in the first row of seats, as still as he can; if he turns to look at his mother he or she or they both will start to laugh.

"Come on, baby. I'll make it worth your while." Martha Rodgers has made her entrance, beaming at Mrs. Reed, who sits as if nailed to her chair, still goggling. Martha reaches out to shake Mrs. Reed's hand and then sits in a chair in front of the teacher's desk and looks expectantly at her.

Richard speaks up, mainly to forestall another recitation. "Mrs. Reed, this is my mother, Martha Rodgers. Martha, this is Mrs. Reed." (He's recently been experimenting with calling her "Martha" instead of "Mom".)

"How do you do," says Mrs. Reed, recovering a bit of her balance. "Thank you for coming to this parent-teacher conference, Mrs. Rodgers."

Martha's eyebrows go up and she glances at Richard and murmurs, "Come on, baby. I'll make it worth your while."

"Excuse me, Mrs. Reed," Richard interprets. "It's not Mrs., it's, um, Miz. Ms."

(In his world no one bothered with these kinds of labels; if his mother were anything to theatre people she'd be "madame" or "Red" or simply "Rodgers!")

Ms. Rodgers nods her approval. Mrs. Reed nods her understanding. Richard does nothing except try to keep alert to further social snafus. (He just learned this word, from one of Mother's - Martha's - friends, who brought back some interesting language from his time in the Army.)

"Ms. Rodgers, I understand that you and Richie have only lived in this area since last summer."

Martha nods again and Mrs. Reed plows ahead.

"He's been in my class four months now, and by now I'm convinced he belongs in a very different placement."

Richard has no idea what she's talking about. He doesn't get into fights - he's good at ducking and running and jeering from afar - he turns his homework in on time, he never gets a grade lower than a C (and that's in math, where he doesn't mind being "average"). Why doesn't he belong here?

Martha speaks, this time in a more ominous tone. "Come on, baby. I'll make it worth your while." She doesn't look in Richard's direction, and he hopes she's not mad at him, but he can't interrupt right now.

Mrs. Reed now seems to realize that, since Martha's speech appears to be restricted to two lines, it's the teacher's chance to speak freely.

"Richie is very - typical in some areas," she says. "For an eight-year-old boy. Behaviorally and socially, he's right where he should be, perhaps a bit more advanced in terms of verbal expression."

This is the nicest thing she's ever said about Richard, who gives her a shy smile even though she's not looking his way.

"I know you've seen his report card," Mrs. Reed continues. "On paper, obviously, he's doing well - his math scores could be improved - "

"Come on, baby," Martha interrupts, a bit testily. "I'll make it worth your while."

"His writing and reading skills are, well, amazing for a boy his age," she tells Martha. "His reading comprehension probably surpasses the fifth grade level. The fact is, he isn't being challenged enough in this class. He's not pushing himself to do his best - because he can get by with little effort. To put it mildly, he's bored."

To Richard's astonishment, she looks directly at him and smiles, looking kind. Why does his boredom make her smile? She just said he was amazing - and then that he's not doing his best. Well, he supposes those could both be true statements.

His mother speaks up again, sounding confused. "Come on, baby. I'll make it worth your while."

"My point is that I believe Richie would benefit from skipping a grade," says Mrs. Reed.

Richard sits bolt upright. Skip a grade? He was just getting used to second grade. He shoots a worried look at Martha, who gives him a tiny head shake and turns her attention back to the teacher. This time she doesn't repeat the line, just raises her expressive eyebrows. Mrs. Reed picks up her cue.

"Or possibly attending a school with a more rigorous curriculum," she adds. "One of the private schools - perhaps a parochial - ?"

Well, this is awkward. His mother has told him the Catholic school was out of the question, but he doesn't know why; most other private schools are out of the question because of the expense. Martha shakes her head and opens her mouth, and Richard is struck with fear that she's about to break character.

"Mother," he says hastily, forgetting about the "Martha" experiment, "it's getting late. Maybe you should go."

She frowns. Richard improvises.

"You know, that extra rehearsal Mr. Norris called? For _four o'clock_ ," he says pointedly.

This time it's Martha who gets a clue. Rising from her chair, she makes a show of tapping her wrist, on which there is no watch, but Mrs. Reed can't see that.

"I hope we'll have another time to discuss the possibilities," Mrs. Reed says to Martha, rising as well. The two women shake hands and Martha gives forth her lines one last time and sweeps from the room with Richard scurrying in her wake.

Once out of the school building, he grabs her hand and pulls her to a stop.

"Mother," he says. "You don't have a four o'clock rehearsal, you know that, right? I just said that 'cause I knew you couldn't explain it to her, about the other schools. And she'd never get why you kept saying your lines, I couldn't explain that to her, she'd think I was making it up. I don't want to go to another school, really I don't, so why go on talking about it?"

(To tell the truth, Richard has found her pre-opening ritual useful in his turn, as he can get away with saying almost anything to his mother, provided he doesn't jinx her. And he really doesn't want to go to another school, not if it means using money they don't have, or having to board someplace that isn't their own home...)

But thank his lucky stars, she's smiling down at him and swinging his hand, and he sees they're headed for his favorite hot dog stand.

"Come on, baby," she says to him, conspiratorially. "I'll make it worth your while."


End file.
